


In St. Petersburg

by riventhorn



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon, living and training in St. Petersburg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 19:50:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9253481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riventhorn/pseuds/riventhorn
Summary: Victor no longer finds his l-words only when he's away from skating.





	

Victor woke at five twenty-three in the morning. He fumbled for his phone and turned off the alarm, squinting at the screen, too bright in the deep dark of a winter morning. Alarm safely silenced, he curled onto his side and looked at Yuuri, sound asleep beside him. 

Without the shrill interruption of the alarm, Yuuri would sleep until the sun rose in the sky. Yuuri liked taking naps too, drowsing in the late afternoon, wrapped in a blanket, face flushed with sleep. 

They were supposed to practice that morning. He was going to show Yuuri the rink and introduce him to the skaters he hadn’t met yet. There were probably faces Victor wouldn’t know either, new arrivals in the months he had been in Hasetsu. 

But it had been a late night spent unpacking—a job still half undone—and taking Makkachin for a walk in the frosty air. He had wrapped one of his scarves around Yuuri’s neck and showed him all the sights in the neighborhood—the bakery on the corner, the little grocery store where he often shopped, the old house with the yellow front door, and the park where the paths had been shoveled clear, snow piled on either side. Yuuri had liked it, he thought, but then Yuuri had started yawning, unable to stop, and so Victor took him home and made him take a hot bath and go to bed. He stayed up a while longer, being as quiet as he could as he put books back on his shelves. 

He remembered how tired he had been his first night in Hasetsu. And so he wanted to let Yuuri sleep in this morning. They could go to the rink later. 

Squirming a little closer to Yuuri, Victor wrapped his fingers in the sleeve of Yuuri’s t-shirt. He remembered other things too, especially how confused and bereft he had felt when confronted with Yuuri’s initial nervousness in his presence. Yuuri had fled from his touch and his company. 

But now they were going to skate together and be together. He kissed Yuuri’s shoulder and nestled his head against Yuuri’s arm, still careful not to wake him. His darling, sleepy katsudon. 

*

Victor stared at the restaurant menu with a dawning sense of resignation and distress. After sleeping most of the morning away, they had finally gotten to the skating rink, endured a lecture from Yakov, teased Yuri, and chatted with Mila. By that time, Yuuri was looking hungry, and Victor was _feeling_ hungry, and he remembered that he wanted to take Yuuri to his favorite restaurant. 

“We’ll start practice tomorrow, Yuuri,” he said, ignoring Yakov’s deep frown. 

Now they were seated at Victor’s preferred table, tucked away in a corner. Yuuri was studying the menu intently and trying to find the names of the dishes in his Russian dictionary, which he was bringing everywhere with him. (“Now that I’m living here with you, I need to learn Russian,” Yuuri had announced. “But Yuuri, you don’t need a dictionary! You have me,” he had protested.)

“I suppose we should have this chicken dish with the vegetables,” Yuuri said, sounding as sad about it as Victor felt. 

He had forgotten that training again meant he wouldn’t be able to eat whatever he wanted. His eyes strayed helplessly to the dessert menu. 

“At least now you have to eat all the healthy foods with me,” Yuuri continued with a distinct lack of compassion. 

Victor frowned and sighed, letting the menu drop onto the table. He better not drink too much wine either. Yakov would have his head if he showed up hungover in the morning. 

“I’m changing my mind about competing again,” he said. 

Yuuri laughed, and Victor would have been annoyed, except Yuuri coupled the laugh with a fond smile, his eyes warm. “But just imagine the feast we can have after we win.”

“That’s right!” Victor perked up in his chair, visions of _katsudon_ and _pelmeni_ appearing in his mind. “When I win gold—”

“When _I_ win gold,” Yuuri interrupted. 

They blinked at each other and then laughed and held up their glasses of ice water for a toast. 

*

Victor staggered over to the couch and collapsed, groaning. His first full week of training was finally over, and every muscle in his body ached. 

Makkachin snuffled his ear and licked his hand, concerned. Victor groaned again. 

Then Yuuri’s weight settled on the couch next to him. Yuuri’s hands gripped his shoulders, kneading away the tightness. 

“I want to be back in your _onsen_. It was so wonderful and warm and relaxing. Oh, right there, Yuuri—that spot—”

“Here?” Yuuri dug his fingers into the muscle, then paused long enough to bestow a kiss on the back of Victor’s neck before resuming. 

Victor shivered at the kiss, hiding his giddy smile in the cushions. He let Yuuri massage him a little more and then wriggled over onto his back and held his arms open. Yuuri slid down into them with a sigh, resting his head on Victor’s chest. 

“You’re tired too?” Victor murmured, petting his hair. 

“Mmmm.” Yuuri yawned and snuffled into his shirt. 

“Too tired to take me to bed?”

Yuuri lifted his head to look at him. “You were the one just complaining about being sore and tired. Are you sure you’re up to it?”

“Why, Yuuri, what are you thinking of doing to me?” he asked, eyes wide. 

Yuuri went bright red and muttered something into Victor’s chest. 

He tried to hide his smile, playing with Yuuri’s hair. “I need a distraction. So I won’t keep thinking about all the jumps I didn’t complete today.” 

Yuuri raised his head again at that, expression serious. “It’s only been a week. You need to give yourself more time.” 

“I know. But then I look at Yurio—and you too—and I think I don’t have any time at all.” 

Yuuri was quiet for a few moments. “Do you regret it?” he asked at last. “Leaving the ice and coming to coach me?”

“Of course not.” Victor cupped Yuuri’s face in his hands, making Yuuri meet his eyes. “Coaching you—being with you—it made skating worth it again, for me. If you weren’t on the ice with me now, I wouldn’t want to be competing again.” 

Yuuri cradled one of Victor’s hands in his own, then drew Victor’s hand to his mouth so he could kiss his palm. 

A bit later, in their bed, the door closed so he could still meet Makkachin’s eyes in the morning, he hid his wince as Yuuri bent his leg toward his chest. It would be just like Yuuri to stop if he thought Victor was in pain, and he really wanted Yuuri’s fingers inside him—yes, yes, just like that, _oh._

Yuuri had removed his glasses, and now he squinted a bit, his hair all mussed from when he had yanked off his shirt. He knew that Yuuri could be a terrible flirt (when drunk) and a sexy minx (when skating) but here in bed, Yuuri was always quite careful and intent, almost serious and a tiny bit anxious. He was completely focused on Victor and making sure he felt good. Sometimes it was a little exhausting to be the object of such devotion, because if he ever came too quickly or didn’t have the World’s Best Orgasm (which happened—not every sexual experience could be mindblowing), Yuuri blamed himself and grew more anxious and apologetic, no matter how he tried to reassure him. 

But it was also quite wonderful, for he could trust himself to Yuuri completely. It was a frightening thing, to lead someone along the paths that formed the garden of your heart, showing them the way to reach you while knowing they could decide at any moment to heedlessly trample the flowers or cut down a blooming sapling. But Yuuri would always tend it with the utmost care. 

He reached up, touching the planes and dips of Yuuri’s chest and stomach as Yuuri bent forward, pushing in with eyes closed and mouth open on an indrawn breath. Ribs, the soft, yielding flesh of Yuuri’s stomach, muscles twitching as Victor grazed a ticklish spot. Then Yuuri slid deeper, and his own breath was taken, hand scrabbling at the air, blind, then caught in a firm grip. Kisses on his fingers, soothing, the ache easing into a sense of anticipation, a tingle of building pleasure. 

He had always been loud during sex, vocalizing every moan and plea for more, this way, faster. But with Yuuri he only gasped quietly at each snap of Yuuri’s hips. Their eyes were caught in the same spell, wondering, a sliver of disbelief still lodged in their hearts that they were indeed here, together. 

When he was the one buried in Yuuri, it was the insatiable urge to touch that overwhelmed him and sent his fingers flying over Yuuri’s skin, a thousand kisses fluttering over Yuuri’s body, and a flurry of words from his lips— _Yuuri_ , _Yuuri_ , _Yuuri_ —until Yuuri moaned his own name in response— _Victor_.

His orgasm jerked along his spine with abrupt intensity, wiping away every thought, leaving him spent and shivery. Yuuri eased out, all flushed and tense, and started tugging off the condom. 

It was hard to uncurl, to leave the warm depression in the bed. But he did, pushing Yuuri down, flicking his tongue over the head of his cock, then enveloping him in his mouth, spit and precome smearing over his cheek on the way. Yuuri’s hand landed in his hair, gripping too hard, then relenting and petting an apology with trembling fingers. He kept sucking, swallowing, and felt Yuuri go tight, the come pooling in his throat, thick and suffocating. 

Too late, he remembered he was never good at this part and ended up coughing violently, tears springing to his eyes. 

Yuuri was frantic and embarrassed. “Victor? I’m so sorry. I should have warned you. I—here, let me get you some water.” 

The water helped. He had to blow his nose too, in a decidedly unromantic finish. 

Yuuri had put his glasses back on and pulled the sheet over his lap, staring down at his hands. 

Victor took one of them, splaying out Yuuri’s fingers and tracing in between them. “I suppose you imagined that I was very suave in the bedroom.”

“I didn’t imagine things like _that_ about you,” Yuuri squawked, appalled. 

“Oh.” He was slightly disappointed to hear this. “Not even once?”

Yuuri was conspicuously silent and red about the ears. 

He kissed Yuuri’s cheek. 

*

At the end of the month they invited Yuri and his grandfather to have dinner with them. Actually, Yuuri was the one who did the inviting, and Victor wasn’t sure of the exact sequence of events that led to this invitation. He found out about it after the fact, when Yuri was trying to pretend he wasn’t pleased, and Yuuri was emailing his mother to ask for her katsudon recipe. 

Victor had, of course, met Yuri’s grandfather in the past. But he was not at all sure about having the man in their home. 

"It doesn't matter to me what we have to eat," he said when Yuuri asked him if katsudon was all right. 

"But you have a better idea of what he might like."

“I do not. I don’t know him. He’s Yuri’s grandfather, not mine.”

They were out walking Makkachin. Their coat sleeves brushed, and Yuuri’s fingers lingered by his own. He stuffed his hand in his pocket.

But he warmed to the idea over the following week. Yuri reported that his grandfather was getting his suit cleaned. Yuuri took a sponge to the couch to try and get Makkachin’s hairs off it. On the day before the dinner, Victor dug around in the storage closet and found the box with his grandmother’s good china. He took out the bowls painted with blue birds. He remembered eating soup from them when he was very small, the birds drowning in the broth while the tiny TV on her kitchen counter buzzed with static in the background. 

The next day, Yuuri asked him to pick up eggs on his way home. He forgot and then had to rush out to the store, chastened, while Yuuri dashed about the kitchen, tripping over Makkachin, who lurked underfoot. 

Yuri and his grandfather arrived promptly at six-thirty. Yuri introduced his grandfather, Nikolai Plisetsky. Nikolai nodded a greeting and hefted the beer he had brought as a contribution to the evening. Yuuri was at the door, smiling and talking about _pirozhki_. Victor stood a step behind him. Makkachin sniffed the cat hairs on Yuri’s coat. 

As Victor shook Nikolai's hand, the ring Yuuri had given him pressed into his skin, firm and unyielding.

Yuri had never seen Victor’s apartment, and it was obvious how curious he was, wandering around while Yuuri tried to explain in broken Russian and English all the intricacies of his mother’s katsudon recipe to Nikolai. Victor followed Yuri over to the bookshelf, where Yuri was peering at the framed photographs of Makkachin as a puppy.

“I thought you’d have your medals hanging on the wall,” Yuri said.

“Oh, they’re in the bathroom. That way I can see them when I’m sitting in the tub.” Yuuri’s silver medals were hanging there too now. 

Yuri snorted. 

Over dinner, Victor discovered that Nikolai had been at the first Grushinsky festival in 1968. 

“My mother listened to Bulat Okudzhava all the time,” Victor exclaimed. 

“Who?” Yuuri asked, catching the gist of the conversation. 

“He was a Russian folk singer. I’ll play you some of his music later,” Victor said. “Have you listened to him, Yuri?”

“Yurochka was not interested in the bard songs,” Nikolai said, sounding amused. “But let me tell you about Grushinsky in 1968. I was there with Yurochka’s grandmother.”

He related a few amusing stories about the festival. Victor laughed, drank some more beer, and rested his arm along the back of Yuuri’s chair, touching his shoulders. Yuuri gave him a smile. Victor grinned back. Yuri made a disgusted noise at the end of the table. 

Several hours later, they were all in the kitchen. Nikolai rolled _pirozhki_ dough and discussed with a tipsy Yuuri the merits of breading _pirozhki_ before frying them. Victor kept leaning over to steal pieces of the sugared apples Yuuri had just finished cooking. Yuri was downloading the Russian rules for _Machi Koro_ so he could continue the argument he had begun with Yuuri over how to use Industry cards during the epic game they had played while the _pirozhki_ dough was rising. Yuuri had brought the game with him from Hasetsu and had already created a sheet of Russian translations of pertinent words and rules so that Victor could play easily with him (although admittedly Victor always became distracted by imagining names and irrelevant details for his shops to pay much attention to strategy). 

“We must have some music,” Nikolai exclaimed when the _pirozhki_ were in the oven. He began belting out “ _Oi, Moroz, Moroz_.” Yuri joined in immediately. It had been some time since Victor had sung it, but he remembered enough to pick up the tune. Nikolai threw an arm around Yuri’s shoulders and then put his other arm around Victor. 

Victor grinned and lifted his beer to Yuuri who was watching them with a bemused expression. 

“ _Moroz_ , Yuuri! _Moroz_!” he encouraged, and Yuuri gamely tried to shout the word at the proper moments. 

They all ate too many _pirozhki_ , burning their tongues on the spiced apple filling. At last Yuri and Nikolai left, safely bundled into a cab. Victor waved goodbye from the door, Yuuri leaning against his side. 

Back in the apartment, he pressed Yuuri into the wall and kissed him. Yuuri’s breath smelled of beer and apples. Yuuri giggled and hung onto his neck, smiling up into his eyes like he had that first night at the GPF banquet. 

They left all the dirty dishes cluttering the kitchen and tumbled into bed. Yuuri cuddled up to him, and Victor held him, tucking Yuuri's head under his chin. 

In a quiet voice, he told Yuuri about his mother. She wore a white coat, and her ice skates were white too. She held out her arms to him, and he took his first unsteady steps onto the ice to reach her. 

*

When they walked Makkachin in the park, the seagulls flew above them. Snow coated the ground and stuck to their boots. Yuuri looked up at the seagulls.

“Do they remind you of Hasetsu?” Victor asked him.

Yuuri considered. “Maybe a little.” 

“Do you miss it?”

“Mmmm—it’s my childhood home.” He took Victor’s hand. “But I’m happy here. Even though it’s really cold!”

Victor tugged Yuuri’s hat down further over his ears. “There.” They walked past a bench mounded with snow and two children building snowmen. “Do you think we should get another puppy?”

Yuuri’s eyes lit up at the suggestion. “A poodle…?”

“Of course.”

“Will Makkachin be jealous?”

“He would never be jealous.” Makkachin was too pure for such thoughts.

“Then yes, but—” Yuuri frowned. “Not until the spring. We’ll have to take a puppy outside a lot more. The weather needs to be warmer.” 

“You’re right, Yuuri.” Victor nodded. Yuuri was always so practical. Of course, Yuuri would never have flown to another country, shown up at a near-stranger’s door, and announced he was going to be their coach. So it was a good thing one of them was definitely _un_ practical. 

One couldn’t ignore the realities of the world entirely, of course. Victor made a mental note to buy Yuuri a warmer hat.

*

Victor always stayed later at the rink than Yuuri to practice his own routines a little longer. It made him tired, but in a satisfied way. Coming home, as he walked up to their apartment, he could look up and see a light on behind the curtain.

Inside, Yuuri was talking to Pichit.

“Hello!” Victor said, bending down to wave at Pichit on the screen. Then he sat down on the floor, hugging and petting Makkachin until Yuuri was finished. 

“How did practice go?” Yuuri asked when he had said goodbye to Pichit. 

Victor smiled. “Good. Yakov gave me a grudging compliment, which is always a positive sign.”

“You still haven’t skated the whole routine for me,” Yuuri complained. He tucked his feet under his legs so he could sit cross-legged on the couch and face Victor. He was wearing thick wool socks dyed a bright, cerulean blue. Victor had already appropriated several pairs of Yuuri’s socks and felt these might make an appearance in his drawer shortly as well. 

Yuuri grumbled about it, but left the socks there.

“I will, but not yet. Not quite yet.” He scooted over the floor to lean against the couch at Yuuri’s feet. Gentle fingers landed in his hair, combing over the fine strands. 

He would skate for Yuuri one evening, when it was only the two of them left at the rink. Yuuri would watch, captivated. He would see and know how Victor’s skating had changed. Because Victor no longer found his l-words only when he was away from skating. Now they had become an inseparable part of it, reflected in a quadruple flip, in a combination spin, in the two cups of tea at the breakfast table, in coming home to a light and a smile and a hug.

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, fanfic has led me to learn about things I never thought I would, like Russian folk music from the 1960s. But all references to Russian and Japanese music, food, and culture are from the internet and I make no claims as to their accuracy.


End file.
